


Boredom

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, handjobs, peter is 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20408977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Peter knows just the way to help Tony not-focus on the Avengers meeting at hand.





	Boredom

Tony arrives late. Too late to be considered fashionable, but fashionable all the same. The conference room is crammed with all manner of superheroes and super humans. Scott’s there too, doing his impression of a Labrador fetching coffee from the machine in the corner. When he arrives, general grumbling occurs, except for the little beacon of light sitting at the far back of the room. Peter’s whole being brightens, nudging his head towards the empty seat behind him.

“Thanks, Pete,” he says. “Did you keep my seat warm?”

“No—they did.” Peter points down. When Tony looks, he sees several thick manila envelopes resting on the seat of his chair. It reeks of paperwork, stuff he has gotten damn good at avoiding since he handed the company over to Pepper.

“You know,” Tony says, pushing the chair back in. “Suddenly, I think I have somewhere to be.”

“Tony.”

“Actually, it might be a heart attack. Yes, what’s this shooting pain in my arm?”

“Tony, please,” Peter pleads, eyes big as moons. Twice as pretty and imploring. When he goes on, his voice is low: “Don’t make me sit through this alone. Captain Rogers just left to get a projector. One of those old-time ones that teachers used to use during the Civil War.”

“Impossible,” Tony says. “There’s no chance in hell I’d allow one of those in my building. Physically, I couldn’t. It would spontaneously combust as it crossed the threshold, like a sinner in church.”

“Don’t look, then,” Peter says mournfully, staring past Tony at the door. “Shield your eyes, Mr. Stark.”

And Tony can’t get out of it, this mandatory revision of proper post-mission paperwork. Steve reads him the riot act—apparently in all their five-hundred-something missions together, Tony has never properly filled out or filed his paper testimonial, apparently they are almost exclusively here because of him and, yeah, okay, that sounds about right—but also, Peter gives him one of those moon-eyes glances and he’s stuck like glue to his seat.

“How does this thing work?” Steve mutters, fiddling with the knobs on the side of the projector, glancing at the empty spot on the wall where an image should be projected. Tony’s in hell. This is his literal nightmare—watching a centennial struggle with technology already archaic in this modern age.

“You need to turn off the lights, Captain Rogers,” Peter chimes in. He’s such a good fucking boy. Tony reaches out to flick him. Because Tony is not a good boy. Peter flinches, grinning, his teeth glinting in the dark after the lights shut off. Across the room, the yellowing image cast by the projector appears on the wall.

“Okay. Let’s take this from the top. Tony, are you listening?”

“I’m all ears, Cap,” Tony says. Under the table, he has his hand on Peter’s knee, thumb and forefinger digging into the ticklish spot right above the joint. Peter’s leg is bouncing furiously to try to buck him off, lips pressed into a thin line even as his face goes red with the effort it takes not to laugh. No one is seated close enough to be disturbed by them—props to Peter for taking the seats in the back of the room for once, instead of sitting right up from like the A-plus student he is.

“Good,” Steve says, sounding like he believes Tony not-at-all. “Post mission, see me for your debriefing papers. They will look exactly like this. At the top, you see a spot for a NAME. That means your name. Your birth name. The name on your birth certificate. Not a nickname, not any variation of your name, not you know who I am. Your name. Any questions?”

Peter grips Tony’s wrist firmly to keep him from raising it. The kid is fucking strong. It shouldn’t turn Tony on as much as it does—but at least he’s self-aware. That’s got to stand for something, right? He lets himself pull against Peter’s grip, but it doesn’t budge, not even a bit, and all at once it’s not humorous anymore, it’s sending all the blood in Tony’s body south for the winter. Below the equator of his belt.

“Next,” drones Steve. “Is the date. This means the date you are filling out the paperwork. This date should not fall six months after a mission ends. Do you hear Tony?”

“Loud and clear, Steve,” Tony says, hoping he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels. “Please go on, I’m rivetted. I’m learning so much—”

“Alright,” Steve sighs. “Next—”

Peter lets go of Tony’s hand. Even in the dark he can see the white, fading remnants of where his grip was. He can’t help but let his fingers trace that line, pressing firmly to try and coax it back. A finger taps at his thigh and he glances over to see Peter staring at him, eyebrows furrowed. _Did I hurt you?_ He mouths.

Tony shakes his head. But is it so wrong that he wishes Peter had, a little bit? He’s never been so turned on by a platonic touch. Some forms of blatant foreplay hasn’t had him so hard in his pants, cock aching like he’s nineteen years old like the young man next to him. Steve is bitching at him again from the front of the room and Tony does his best to school his expression into one of interest—doesn’t have to be believable, he’s just crossing off all the necessary boxes—and then he hears the gasp next to him.

Peter’s eyes are so wide the whites seem to glow. His mouth is parted, stare glued to—to Tony’s hand, where it is unconsciously rubbing at his hard cock through his slacks. Wincing, he withdraws his hand. There’s no way to pretend he was just adjusting himself, hell he’d settle for scratching a fucking itch, but it’s all too clear that there’s a specific itch he wants scratched. Peter glances up at him, lashes so long and dark in the dim light, half his profile glowing from the projector across the room and the other half fading into shadow.

Tony shrugs. He laces his fingers and places his hands firmly on the table. He and Peter—they have this thing. The flirting, the back and forth banter (verbal foreplay, practically) began shortly after he began working with him in the lab during non-Avenging hours. So far, it’s been mostly unacknowledged. That’s part of the appeal, he thinks. The dancing around each other. He’s hoping to make an honest man of Peter soon: take him out on a real date, actually communicate. But for now, the dance is enough. Jerking off over his pants in front of the kid might count as more than dancing, though.

Something touches his thigh and he slaps at it—spider, is his first ridiculous instinct—but the warm skin under his hand definitely is no spider. At least, not the sort of spider he was dreading. Glancing at Peter out of the corner of his eye, the boy is staring ahead resolutely at the projection screen, even though his chair and body are still angled towards Tony. He looks calm, even intrigue by whatever Steve is saying, but beneath the table, his leg is bouncing anxiously.

Tony flicks Peter’s hand, but the kid just squeezes firmly. Then his hand starts to move, north, definitely north. In this adult game of hot or cold, Peter is heading for dangerously hot territory, all the while with his huge guileless eyes. He is inches from Tony’s aching erection when the older man puts his hand down between Peter’s curious fingers and the Promised Land. In response, that smaller, softer hand curls up into a little fist and rubs its knuckles gently against the fort Tony has erected to halt its journey. It’s tender. Sweet. Tony can’t help but relax his hand, briefly let their fingers tangle together.

When Peter pulls away, it’s just to press his palm firmly on the bulge of Tony’s crotch. He jumps, knee banging against the table.

Steve squints against the light of the projector to see them in the back of the darkened room. “Are you okay, Tony?”

“Peachy. But I don’t know if I understood your last point. My brain, it’s, it’s still down in the lab. Go over it again for me?”

Steve, loveable dunce, does. The whole time, Peter’s hand is resting, hot against Tony’s aching crotch. He wants to thrust up into it, knows that the pressure will ease the ache in his balls even as it stokes it higher. Swallowing hard—Jesus, his mouth is dry, should have picked up some water or even fucking coffee before he sat down—Tony turns to Peter, eyes wide, trying to talk through anxious, horny glances.

But Peter’s other arm has its elbow planted on the table, chin in his palm, looking like he’s starting to get bored with the meeting which—okay, yeah, everyone else is too. Then the pressure is gone, Pete’s hand moving away, back to the safety of Tony’s thigh. He glances over, frowning a little. One eyebrow goes up, an obvious question: _is this okay?_

Tony’s never turned down a handjob in his life and he’s not starting today. He scoffs a little under his breath, shifting. If he scoots his chair in a little, it gives him more room to recline, more access to Peter’s hand, should it want to wander. And wander it does. Back to his crotch, where Peter wraps his fingers as best as he can around Tony’s erection through his pants. Peter shifts a little himself. It’s too dark to see if he’s hard, but the look on his face is arousal decently disguised as sleepiness. His mouth parts, and only Tony is close enough to hear his panting breaths, but then he’s too busy focusing on himself as Peter’s curious thumb searches for the head of Tony’s cock.

He lets his head fall back to rest against the chair. God, it’s good. If the pants were gone, Peter would be able to feel the stickiness _right there_ where he’s running the pad of his thumb along the crown. His cock jumps, and Peter lets out a breathy little laugh, more of an exhale than anything else. Tony steels himself when that thumb moves away—he won’t whine, he won’t—but Peter just taps his finger against Tony’s belt buckle.

Tony takes in a deep breath and lets it out slow, the whole time feeling the question of Peter’s finger against his belt. He lets his hands fall beneath the table, working hard to keep casual. His eyes are glued to the projector screen, but he has no fucking idea what Steve is rambling about. Carefully, silently, he works to undo and part his belt. Then he unbuttons the dress slacks, but the zipper? The zipper is cake. It’s easy. It’s Peter’s. Let him find out on his own what’s beneath that zipper.

And he does, quick as he is, he knows what Tony wants. His hand trails up a little to find the tongue and then he pulls it down, down, down, and as soon as his knuckles are brushing the hot, bare skin of Tony’s cock (because fuck yeah, no underwear, free balling for life), he shivers all over. Peter’s head rolls, looking like he’s just trying to avoid a kink, but the parting of his mouth is downright sexual. The sound his breath makes is just short of a whine.

Then the hand is back. Tony shifts in his seat a little so that Peter doesn’t have to work hard to free his cock, and then the cool air rushes over him, painfully sweet against his feverish skin. Peter isn’t looking. He’s staring at the projector, but Tony can feel how badly he wants to turn and see the cock he’s just freed. Tony wants him to, wants to see the look on his face. Would it be hungry, scared, both?

Instead, Peter sees it with his hands, running curious fingers all over it from the weeping head to the balls at the base, the neatly trimmed pubic hair. Tony endures this exploration, heart hammering, gritting his teeth against the urge to reach down and help those fingers wrap around him, jerk him off properly. But there’s no way he would ruin this. It is perfect in its own way.

Peter gets around to it, in his own time. He wraps those long fingers around Tony’s cock and begins a slow, torturous pace.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters softly. No one even glances their way, which is probably good, because there’s no chance Tony could school his features to look anything short of ecstatic and aroused.

The meeting goes on, and so does the handjob. Peter doesn’t rush, he can’t rush, not with the risk that someone will glance their way and see the feverish movement of his arm. So instead, it is the slowest handjob he’s ever received, but that’s what takes him apart. Any time the pleasure builds to anything close to an orgasm, Peter moves away, to thumb at the leaking slit or to cup Tony’s balls, palming them firmly. It begins to hurt, the lack of an orgasm despite the constant arousal, but Tony likes it. Everything is more sensitive, until his hips are jumping every time Peter sooths a fingertip over his frenulum.

It goes on for so long that his orgasm can’t help but build. He feels it, an ever-coiling wire in his gut. His breathing picks up, eyes slipping closed. Fuck it. If Steve looks, let him think that Tony fell asleep. His pelvis gives gentle surges forward into the slick ring Peter’s hand makes, fucking into it as subtly as he can. The kid goes slow enough that the sound isn’t heard in the room, the obscene wet noises a handjob can usually create. Despite the speed, there is no sacrifice of pressure. Peter is strong. He has endurance. He shows no sign of slowing or tiring or stopping (thank god). Just long, unbearably firm strokes from base to head and back down again.

“Pete,” Tony whispers, the only warning he can give. He reaches out blindly, his own hand finding Peter’s thigh, and while he’d like to find the younger man’s cock, he can’t because—yes—god yes—he’s cumming.

For how slowly Peter’s hand moves, the orgasm is explosive, pulling almost painfully from inside of him. His balls throb, thankful and sensitive, every jolt of his heartbeat causing his cock to jump and spit another line of cum down the soft fingers that still move up and down and up again. Peter has his head down, face obscured by his hand, his leg bouncing furiously underneath the table. Still, he milks every last drop from Tony, reaching down even to gently rub at his sore, empty balls.

Then Peter draws his hand back and licks it clean.

“Fucking brat,” Tony whispers. He couldn’t say it any louder if he tried. His lungs aren’t working—maybe this is a heart attack. What irony, he thinks. At the front of the room, Steve is wrapping up the (actually quite tolerable, all circumstances accounted for) meeting. Tony has just enough time to tuck his spent cock back into his pants, re-do his belt before the light comes on, blinding them all.

“Did you get all that, Tony?” Steve asks. “Fury wants all your paper work completed before the weekend is up.”

“Don’t worry Captain,” Peter says brightly. “I got it. I’ll lend him a helping hand, too.”

“I bet you fucking will,” Tony mutters, gathering the thick envelopes full of his botched paperwork. Steve and Peter exchange some more banter, like Peter wasn’t just jerking Tony off beneath the table. Then they are alone, except for the projector which Tony plans to burn hastily. On his way out, Peter stops in the doorway.

“Coming, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks.

Cheeky little shit.

**Author's Note:**

> hope this is okay. tumblr is cagestark


End file.
